Let's Metaphor

I'm a daredevil.

Didn't I tell you?

I've been a daredevil for oh, about 10 years now..huh...didn't realize how long it's been. But yes, I am a daredevil. There been some really great moments in my ten-year career. Great heights I've reached, always daring to raise the bar the next try. Bigger risks, bigger pains. But hell, what's the point without the thrill of falling?

My first amateur attempt for the thrill was when I was 13. I was naive in many ways and got my research from the media. Taking notes of my favorite techniques and methods. Trail by error. The jump was Lawrence (named change for the sake of well-not completely calling someone out in cyber-space for my need to tell this blog). So jump no. 1 obstacle 254: one big long ramp leading up to a big horseshoe dip. For this, it was all about the speed. I needed to pick up my bike and drive the hell out of it if I was ever going to make it to the other side of that horseshoe. So I rode. Fast.

Lawrence was brooding and dark. Quiet and so romantically mysterious to my 13-year old self. The less he said the more I was convinced he was a god, which ironically was quite blasphemous as most of the time I sat worshipping him was at church. Thinking back, I'm really surprised I left every Sunday unharmed for a solid 7 months. No lightning. No thunder. No massive finger pointing out my drooling eyes and lovesick sigh. I was speeding alright.

When I got to the first dip the sensation was unreal: Lawrence hugged me-it was trying to ride up to the other side that I began to fall backwards. It was all wrong and my footing was nowhere near where it should have been. I fell, off the bike, without a helmet and got my first concussion.

Jump 2, Obstacle 612: Wilson. This was a course. Like full-on twists and bends and loopy-loops. I found myself at the beginning, with helmet this time, and I just went for it. I really didn't even know the course was a course till half-way through. Never realized how long I would be on it but I was having one hell of a time breezing through it. I stayed in one piece for most of it, which gave less and less fear to the daredevil laughing triumphantly inside of me. He was feeling like top dog and, of course, wanted to dare to do more.

So more it was.

I caught some major air with Wilson: I said I love you. That was the first time I got the wind knocked out of me, wheezed for a few days trying to recuperate the couple of ribs I hit. This was one tough course I couldn't stop riding. I swear I was flying most of the time. My shimmery cape ruffling through the winds. Sun setting around my figure, glowing in my courageous glory.

And then there was the last ramp I needed to get over: mammoth. The Grand Canyon would have shriveled up in its presence, it was that big. I just couldn't get myself to do it. What a puss. But not for long, no sooner had I said "I'm finished!" than I strapped on my helmet and leaped. But it was too late. And luck was not on my side. I broke almost every bone in my body. Full-body cast for two years: it was my worse recovery.

When I finally healed I retired my daredevil years and sought after a nice, calm, quiet life of just me. Me and my pals. I lived quietly for a good number of months before I started to itch for the thrill. I got mad at myself, at first. Lectured to an audience of one-me- till the wee hours of the morning. But I knew there was no use: I would have to dare once again.

And dare, I did.

The Bookworms' Thrift Shop

Sunday I went to the festival.

Not Coachella or Stagecoach but books, festival of books.

In high school, I would spend random bits of time I had free between when school let out and when rehearsal began. That was usually an hour or two. The library was still open for business and I always found that my favorite game to play as major bookworm was a version of musical chairs, but with shelves filled with books.

My fingers trickled through each colorful bind, touching lightly the titles of my adventures into another place, another time. My head cocked completely to the side and pacing one foot in front of the other, I would entertain myself with the selection. Fiction was my first home and in it I found mystery, drama, psychological intrigues, romance, and unknown love of my literary life: Harry Potter.

The librarian, Mrs. Dacker, came to be a lovely friend of mine through the years I spent playing my game. She was always willing to recommend and I was always willing to accept. She was a hilarious woman who had a vivacious passion for books. I loved her immediately.

And then she spoke three words. Three small little words:

"Festival of Books."

Me: "I love you too."

She was making an informal field trip with her literature club and asked me if I wanted to come along. I was 15 and I knew I wanted to spend my Saturday in no other place but this festival of everything-I-loved. But, I wanted a buddy. Again, I was 15 and the idea of going with other kids I didn't know was not really cool, so I needed my buddy, my bookworm no. 2 : Elise Herrera.

Elise was two grades older. A senior, but a great companion, despite the age. (I mean any grade above your own was like the equivalent of 10 yrs.) She taught me to dance, and I taught her to bring out her inner geeky bookworm. Together, millions after millions of pages would be read.

This past Sunday was year 7. Yup, 7.

Elise on our Sunday morning walk from the shuttle stop to the Etc. Stage spoke of our future fame in later years to come as the number increased (we have no plans to stop ANYtime soon) and the L.A. times will one day catch on and BAM! we got a cover story and our own booth. That, would be our shining glory: our own white-tent booth. I would totally request as much artistic freedom as I could and make that booth the belle of the ball-or festival.

I'm thinking color. We'll have some drapery going on the walls. Patterned fabrics to bring out the homeiness of the tent. Have a painted fireplace to place in the back. And of course, shelves. Shelves of our books from festivals passed: the best of our collection and now handed down to the future festival-goers. Pictures framed of all our past visits will decorate the shelves, aging as you move along to really give our visitors a true scope of our tradition. Elise and I would sit to one corner, sipping herbal tea because it's better for our health at this age (mid-60s). We'll have a nice cafe table with two arm chairs because again, this place is a home.

We'll have our banner: "The Bookworm's Thrift Shop: our library is your library."

It'll be a hit, because any good bookworm knows the wisdom of another good bookworm and recognizes the quality as well as the quantity. Recommendations between book lovers never disappoints. The love shared for the printed word is so universal that despite genres, or different authors and tones, or subject matters, or techniques, one book lover to another will find a way to common ground and exchange.

It's the most diplomatic relationship in world.

Nothing would give my retirement pleasure than this future booth. And a picture in the internet paper (let's face that fact: newspaper is going full viral by my mid-60s).

My quest as a passionate advocate for literacy will find a satisfied destination in sitting in my comfy armchair, with my herbal cup of tea, watching others purchase and carry on the same books that I hope will move them too, with my friend Elise by my side telling me about a book I just have to read.

Long live the festival.

Evan is my homeboy

Alex, my boyfriend, always tells me that if you put it out on the internet, than you really mean it.

I met Evan when I was 13 and freshly picked from the midwest to the west coast. He was tall, long, and had a huge smile the first time I saw him. (When Evan smiles, you're a goner.) Meeting Evan was the beginning of a beautiful, hilarious friendship I had no idea I would be a part of: great friendships are serendipitous.

A transition from the midwest to the west coast is about the same as a transition from one country to another. The dialect is different, the people are different, the textiles are different, and as a budding teenager I was in shock. And depressed. But Evan, ah Evan would be in the group parting welcoming arms into my new home, and life.

There's a list of memories I can scroll through of my favorite moments I shared with Evan. So many years I was blessed to be around him. Now, I was having a conversation with my good friend Ben the other day and we concluded this: we were part of the pre-"EVAN!"-era, that is, we were friends with him before he got famous.

Evan Peter is famous. Really. You get yourself off the 210 freeway, exit sunflower ave. and cruise around residential Covina, and ask anyone between the ages of 20-25 and say "where's evan's house?" you'll get an automatic "behind taco bell, off glendora ave. i'll come with you."

The Peters Residence has a bigger following than the Greek Orthodox Church down the street, that I am positive of. Sorry to the Orthodox Greeks but I'm pretty sure they don't offer around-the-clock soda service with an all-you-can-eat munchies bar and endless sectional of board games. But that, my readers, is a religious gathering of the most deepest and sincerest love.

Evan is like Jesus. You can't help but gravitate to him. I've seen it firsthand with other people. It's fascinating! Everyone is wearing an invisible "Evan is my homeboy" t-shirts and I don't blame them. If anything, I see it as a true testament that, despite my several flaws, something I have is an impeccable taste in friends. It never fails me. And because of that: I am sane.

Otherwise, I'm sure I would turn to some sort of warped version of a beat-neck and crazed feminist.

Evan is one of my true crowning moments as a friend-picker. He's the damn funniest guy I know. My face hurts whenever I hang out with him for too long. But it's like that pain that feels good too. Pain in my face muscles but good in the heart.

I got him back though when I kicked the shit out him in our high school's production of "1984." My teacher decided to shake things up a bit and casted me in the male lead of O'Brien and lucky Evan was my Winston. Before Act Three I would cup his face in my hands, look him right in the eye, say "I love you", kiss him on the cheek I would later smack, and proceed to the pool of light to begin his torturous beat-down. That nightly ritual was my favorite, private moment I shared with my best friend. It's so defining.

All that we did on stage together as actors, and as friends in life, would be impossible if it weren't for our mutual trust.

Evan once told me that acting was only good to him when he was acting with his friends.

And friend, life is only good when I'm laughing it with you. Thank you.

Happy Birthday.